


Echo

by Xanthiae (Casstea)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4360511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casstea/pseuds/Xanthiae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no sound, not in the vacuum of space. Just the endless colours of powers far beyond the man’s own, a reminder of his own insignificance to the universe, that he was a no one, a nothing to the greater workings of space and time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> First posted in 2012. One shot. Title taken form the Jason Walker song of the same name.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Avengers, this is written for fun and not for profit.

Falling.

It was a sensation like no other. Tumbling downwards in an endless spiral, the colours of the universe spinning, merging, taunting their power at the powerless figure who fell through them. His body was limp, limbs following the direction of the laws of physics as opposed to the commands of the mind which owned them.

Falling.

There was no sound, not in the vacuum of space. Just the endless colours of powers far beyond the man’s own, a reminder of his own insignificance to the universe, that he was a no one, a nothing to the greater workings of space and time.

Falling.

Tears ran down the man’s face. He had fallen one too many times, and this time his mind had been broken with the fall. Fragments of memory glinted across the man’s vision, a golden hallway followed by a barren ice world, fire burning brighter than anything he had seen before. He was the trickster, the liar, the manipulator. He worked alone, surrounded by his palace of lies upon lies, until the strain had become too much. A face worked its way across the man’s memory, of blond hair and a warm personality, and with it came the feeling of love, a brotherly love which bonded the two of them deeper than their bloodlines.

The face disappeared again, another fragment of memory lost.

 He had gambled too much this time, far too much. Yes, he had saved that face, that blond face he thought he knew so well but at the same time did not know it. However, to be the saviour of a god one had to pay a price. This man, this foolish man, who tumbles through space and time watching the colours swirl around him, had paid with his mind. The tool he used so much to play with the lives of others was now gone, now an empty vacuum of nothing but instinct and feelings. The memories were there still, along with his power, but locked away deep inside him, thought never to be accessed again.

Falling.

The man knew that, he knew the sensation as he tumbled now through clouds and not space. The harsh purples and reds of the galaxies had been replaced by the soft colours of blue and white. Water droplets formed on his skin as he plummeted through the clouds, clinging to his clothes as the fabric absorbed each droplet hungrily. He could feel the heat from sunlight, at least he _thought_ it was sunlight, burning his sensitive skin like a hot iron. Without his memories, without his magics, the man was as vulnerable as any Midgardian.

Whilst the universe cheered that it had been saved from eternal doom when the man, who wore many faces had aligned his principles for the good of the nine realms; our foolish, broken echo of a man crashes into the earth, kicking up the dark mud around him. The sun no longer burns him, for it was hidden behind the clouds which he has just plummeted through. The earth was warm though, and still wet from the night’s precipitation. A damp chill hung in the air around the man, as if an invisible spirit was inspecting the mysterious figure who had fallen from so high to the world our world below.

The man pushed himself upright, his muscles straining at the effort. His whole body ached, the blue skin covered in wet mud like camouflage. He does not belong here, on Midgard, but the man knows no different. He had no memory of the person he once was, just the sensation of falling through the sky like a leaf on the wind.

Sound came next, the gentle whisper of wind rushed past him, tugging his long, wet hair around his face. Vision obscured, the man noticed more things as his other senses returned. The smell of machinery, of oil and petrol fill his mind with images of a flying man in red, a dangerous man with a smirk and certain flamboyance. There were feelings connected with that image, of respect and hatred, but the man did not understand their meaning.

His hands sunk further into the wet ground as the man pushed himself back onto his knees. It is then that he analysed the world around him, the neatly mown grass and grand house which lay in front of him. Decked in white to demonstrate the owner’s egotistical sense of flamboyance, it was a sprawling structure with glass panels for windows which looked more like unseeing eyes of a monster to the man with no memory.

The sound of footsteps gained the man’s attention, as he wiped his muddied hand across his face, removing the obstructing hair from his line of sight. A figure approached, running towards him. The man noticed a faint blue light coming from the other figure’s chest, but the man could not focus his vision well enough to see what it was. More images of red and gold flooded his mind’s eye, his brain trying to tell him something about the figure who knelt down next to the man with no memory.

“Where am I?” the man with no memory asked, as he keels to one side. The other figure caught him, strong arms holding him upright.

“Earth,” the other replied, “I would hope you know that. You saved it.”

“I did?”

“Jesus you don’t remember anything?”

“Who are you?”

“Now that hurt,” the figure said, feigning pain, before a serious took over his expression, “you really can’t remember anything can you?” The accent twigged at something in the man’s mind, at a voice he should recognise but could not.

The man squinted, trying to make out the other’s features.

“Do I know you?” the man with no memory asked.

“Yes,” the other replied quietly, his face folding in sadness, “I’m Tony, remember?”

The man shook his head, noting the way Tony’s eyes glazed over in pain. He should know, he _should_ know this mysterious Tony who held the man in his arms. The colours of red and gold obscured his vision, whilst the sense of _belonging_ overcame him. He knew this Tony, this man who held him in his arms tightly, stopping from falling further. But there was only blackness where memories had once resided, and the man knew nothing further. He searched Tony’s further, looking for clues in the other’s expression.

“Who am I?”

The question was whispered from the man’s lips, voicing his desperation, his sorrow, his frustration.

“Loki,” Tony whispered, in return, resting his head on the man’s mud stained one, “Your name is Loki.”

 _Loki_.

It was a name, _his_ name. Yet the man felt no connection to it, it was like any other word, it meant nothing to him. There was only the darkness, the void of _nothing_ which lurked in his sub-consciousness. The man known as Loki knew nothing of his past, or who he was to Tony, the man with a blue aura who held him so tightly in his arms.

 _Falling, falling, falling_.

“Loki,” the man called Loki whispered, the name sounding alien on his tongue. He could feel the darkness creep around the corners of his vision as tiredness overtook him. He had a name, a name which meant nothing but also everything.

Blackness claimed him.


End file.
